Reptilia
by InlandEmpire
Summary: School AU. Jim Moriarty had never been one for half measures. And he really hated Sherlock Holmes - or so he'd thought.
1. I

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

* * *

Jim Moriarty had never been one for half measures.

Being mediocre was, after all, for the unimaginative in the world. Day after day, he watched the people around him trudge through their monochromatic lives, wasting tedious minute after tedious minute on utterly pointless issues; a girlfriend who hadn't been returning their texts, whether their scarf was _en vogue _this winter, or even which wretched football team was currently winning. Jim simply couldn't comprehend it. How could they be so content to coast through life, with no challenges, no drama to fuel them? The sheer boredom of it could've easily reduced him to tears. Granted, they may lack his genius level intellect, but really, how his classmates endured existences of such crushing blandness amazed him. Stagnation truly was a terrifying prospect for a boy with such a thirst for knowledge.

No. If you were going to do something, Jim reasoned, you had to commit yourself to it. The issue with his peers was that they lacked a certain drive; none of their actions were the result of genuine, pure emotion, the kind that gripped Jim with excitement when he discovered a new scientific theory, or the fervour he felt when in the middle of solving a particularly taxing equation. There was no point in wasting valuable time if there was no passion at the heart of it.

Which was why Jim found himself on a bleak, miserable Wednesday afternoon staring into the back of the messy-haired boy in front of him, wearing an expression of pure, undiluted malice; his eyes burning with an intensity bordering on the unhinged. There was no question: he _hated_ Sherlock Holmes. With every bitter, aching fibre of his body.

As though sensing his gaze, Sherlock shifted in his seat, emotionless eyes locking on to Jim's blazing ones. Though his pale face remained a mask, underneath his black woollen overcoat Sherlock's shoulders seemed to stiffen under Jim's unrelenting stare. Calmly sweeping his gaze over the other boy, betraying nothing, Sherlock turned back to his desk, brushing an unkempt strand of black hair out of his face as he lent back over his textbook.

"Mr. Moriarty, would you care to explain why you're more interested in the back of Mr. Holmes than answering the questions that I set?"

Broken from his hateful reprieve, Jim slowly raised his head to face the figure looming over his work. When he spoke, it was in a disaffected monotone; "Being honest Sir, compelling as empirical formulae is, I see no point in wasting my time on calculations so childish I could quite easily manage them in my sleep." Settling back in his chair, the expression on his face had shifted from its previous intensity to one of bored contempt.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a slow, measured exhalation. "Jim," the voice warned, "If you're going to act in such an insolent manner, I'm going to have to have you removed from my classroom."

Hastily, clumsily, Jim stood, jamming his textbook into his backpack, fumbling with the zip. "I'll gladly remove myself, Sir", he coolly responded to the startled teacher, reaching for his coat. Bag slung onto his shoulders, Moriarty shot a withering look at his bemused classmates, and stalked out the room with a theatrical slam of the door. Leaning against the opposite wall, he sighed, raking a hand through his short hair. He really shouldn't have done that. Despite his considerable disdain for the mundane, Jim did have his goals in life. The material was basic enough to be insulting, but he needed to maintain a good record if he wanted to get into a leading university. Storming out of classes wasn't exactly the behaviour of a model student. Pushing himself off the wall, Jim dug his hands in his pockets and wandered off down the corridor, intent on putting the incident out of his mind.

* * *

It was only later, sat at a stained wood table in the library, that Jim allowed himself to replay the scene in his head. Usually, he dealt with his teachers well; whilst their intellect in no way paralleled his, he felt a certain grudging respect towards them. The lesson had been boring, yes; but really, when weren't they? No, the cause of his outburst wasn't down to that. Slumped in his chair, Jim scowled. It could, however, very well have something to do with the smirk he'd seen playing on the smug lips of a certain Sherlock Holmes as he'd been berated for staring at him.

The arrogant bastard. Skulking around school, ever the impartial observer, with darting eyes that scanned restlessly and yet revealed nothing within their clouded green depths. His attitude, yes, that irked Jim. It was the superior air he always carried around with him, the aloof manner he addressed their classmates in, the casual way in which he reeled off the intimate details of their personal lives. He was disgusting. Disgustingly effortless. There wasn't a subject in which Sherlock didn't possess prodigal skill; he was equally adept at biology, chemistry, physics and further mathematics. When asked to answer, he did so in a disaffected tone, clinical and detached.

But it wasn't his intellect that made Moriarty hate him. Oh, no. That would imply he was jealous in some way. And Jim would never be in such a sorry position that he'd envy someone as infuriating as Sherlock. He simply loathed him. Hated him. Hated the way his long, clever fingers tapped across his calculator. Hated the way his arched eyebrows knitted together ever so slightly when watching their classmates interact. Hated the way his unruly hair glinted under the harsh lighting, the way it tangled around those agile fingers when Sherlock was deep in thought. Hated that he managed to distract Jim to the degree that he couldn't work in class, but could only sit and stare, the hatred coursing through him.

Jim took a deep breath and straightened in his chair, fingernails leaving angry red welts where they'd been digging into his palms.

_Sherlock Holmes._

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**Thanks for reading. Any reviews are greatly appreciated.**


	2. II

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

_So, I've decided to continue with this story. Chapter 1 was a bit of a test run, but I had a lot of fun writing it, so let's just see where this goes._

_Thanks to everyone who alerted/favourited; it's great to know you like it :) However, it really would be helpful if you reviewed as well, because your feedback is what helps shape this story._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

Cursing, Jim shoved his bag away from him. This day could not get any worse. First that smug twat Sherlock, then the incident in class that had no doubt gone down on his record. He'd been content enough in the library until it was descended upon by a rabble of insufferable younger years, cursing and yelling whilst he was trying to study. Jim had left; he'd rather face the biting November cold than stay in a room with adolescents who were only questionably above apes in the evolutionary stakes. And now, just as the kicker, he'd forgotten his lunch. Terrific. Gently pushing himself back and forward on the swing, Moriarty sighed. It was enough to turn you into a misanthrope, it really was. Not that Jim was particularly fond of the human race on any given day. The only person he could truly abide was himself.

The playground was deserted; normally, there would be a huddle of sixth formers by the swings, furtively sharing one roll up between eight of them, bitching about their workload and how they couldn't get served anywhere. Carl Powers and his group. Neanderthals, the lot of them. The triviality of their conversations both amused and disgusted Jim; it was just another sign of how far removed he was from his peers, and that was how he liked it. Thankfully, the bitter weather seemed to have put the smokers off today, leaving Jim alone with just the wind and his thoughts.

Leaning back in the swing, Moriarty sighed, head tilted backwards. It was peaceful out here, away from the constant noise and mayhem; he could pretend that he was removed from it all, far away from their world of teenage hormones and angst. The future always seemed vague to Jim, like an unfocussed photograph. Oh, he would go to university, and come first in his class, naturally, gain a degree. But beyond that? He didn't know. Jim couldn't really see himself as holding down a conventional job. It would suffocate him. The 9 to 5 was one of his worst nightmares. No. He'd be... a chemical engineer. Brilliant, renowned. Jim closed his eyes, a small smile pulling at his lips. Yes. People would marvel at his intellect. He'd win awards. He'd be highly respected - travel the world, become fa-

The sound of footsteps jolted him out of his daydream, the ringing sound breaking his fragile imaginings. Jim's head snapped up. Whoever dared to intrude upon his solitude would be sorry. He wasn't particularly intimidating physically, but Jim Moriarty didn't rely on size. His methods were calculated, methodical, perfectly executed. There was something unhinged within him that, when he got especially worked up, had a tendency to snap. He couldn't count the hours he'd spent plotting, formulating, imagining the look of humiliation or terror on his chosen victim's face as he worked. Of course, these times had been few and far between; Jim wasn't irrational, even in revenge. His toleration of the idiots around him was testament to this restraint. But fuck it, he'd had an exceedingly bad day, and this bastard deserved what they had coming to them. He'd dream up something exquisitely complicated.

That was when he saw it. Some way down the path leading to the playground, strewn with skeletal leaves, was a rapidly retreating figure, dressed in a black woollen overcoat. They walked with purposeful stride, back straight, black hair unruly in the wind.

Jim gritted his teeth.

Sherlock _fucking _Holmes.

Snatching his bag up, Jim exited the park in a flurry of dead leaves, the gate banging shut behind him. Of all the people. Any idea of a strategic revenge had been abandoned the second he'd recognised Sherlock. Christ, even the way he carried himself was arrogant; the fluid grace of his walk simply screamed _I am superior to you. _No, this would require a face-on confrontation. He wouldn't give Holmes the satisfaction of ruining his afternoon as well as his morning. And Jim was sure he'd meant to ruin his daydream.

Keeping a safe distance behind, Moriarty followed Sherlock: a small, shadowy figure radiating hate. The taller boy seemed wholly unaware of his presence. Apparently, Sherlock's observational skills weren't infallible. Once or twice, he paused upon the path, and Jim's heart jack hammered in his chest. But Sherlock always continued onwards, and so Jim followed silently, intently. They were heading into the residential area now. Sherlock didn't seem to have a particular destination in mind; he strode ahead, navigating the endless roads in an unrecognisable pattern. Soon, Jim was helplessly lost.

Ahead of him, Sherlock turned down what seemed to be an alleyway. Jim stood for a minute, gaining his composure, venom surging through his veins. Getting lost in an unfamiliar part of town whilst pursuing Sherlock Holmes for revenge certainly hadn't been on today's agenda. Eyes narrowed, he made his way towards the alley. Fuck it. He'd come too far now. He'd have it out with the bastard, and then worry about wherever the hell he was. He'd get no relief until he'd finally knocked the smug twat down a peg or five.

Squaring his shoulders, and with a hissed intake of breath, Moriarty rounded the corner, only to find himself faced with a dead end. And, leaning against the bricked up exit, blank eyes coolly regarding him, a lean figure in a black overcoat. Sherlock Holmes.

"Jim Moriarty." The voice was flat, expressionless.

"You!" Jim bit out the word, fists clenched, lip curled.

Sherlock tilted his head, not a single emotion flickering in fathomless green eyes. "I'd presume since you followed me all the way here, you have an issue of greater importance concerning myself than your ability to use personal pronouns?" came the monotonous response.

Seething, Jim took a step forward, mere metres away from Sherlock. "Don't flatter yourself, you bastard. You think it's all about you, don't you? Because you're _Sherlock Fuckin' Holmes._" Jim accentuated each word by taking a step forward, until the two boys were nearly nose to nose. "Goddamn narcissist. I'm sick of your arrogance! You're trying to drive me insane, and you know what, genius? It's not going to work! I know your game, and I know you're nothing next to me. _Nothing_!" By this point, Jim was practically pressed to Holmes.

"For someone who claims to be sick of my persona, your obsession with me is mildly perplexing at the least." Sherlock's tone was bland, but Jim was sure he could detect a trace of amusement. "Staring at someone for a prolonged period of time or stalking them is usually atypical behaviour of infatuation, not hatred."

"Why, you!" Moriarty shoved Sherlock roughly in the chest, making him stagger slightly. "You just don't get it, do you, you fucking egomaniac? I. Hate. You. I have never come across anyone as infuriating, arrogant or repellent as you in my entire life. Tosser. Obsession? You sicken me, Holmes."

Slowly raising his head, Sherlock regarded Jim thoughtfully, something flashing in his eyes. "I sicken you?" He slowly advanced, an unfamiliar heat in his eyes. "I sicken you, and yet you spend each lesson watching my every move? You go out of your way to follow me, wasting time and energy on myself, whom you hate, because I sicken you? Is that what you're inferring, Moriarty?"

Jim blanched slightly, thrown off by the alien look on Holmes' face. "Shut up. You don't kno-"

Before Jim could even comprehend what was happening, before he could even finish his sentence, Sherlock had darted forward and seized him by the shoulders. Burning eyes bore down into his for a fleeting moment, their intensity paralyzing Jim, and then Sherlock's lips were on his.

It wasn't a soft or romantic; it was harsh, feral, wild with an emotion Jim never would've believed Sherlock was capable of. He could feel the tension in that kiss, the hatred, as Sherlock's chapped lips worked his in a way that made Moriarty's head spin. Yes, the hate was there; but there was lust too, a heat that threatened to melt him if only he'd let Sherlock. Biting Jim's bottom lip softly, Sherlock elicited a moan, causing him to chuckle softly at the smaller boy's reaction. Jim reached up, dizzied, to tangle his hands in those unruly ebony curls. He could feel himself growing pliable, helpless in a surprisingly strong hold as Sherlock's skilled lips devoured his.

After a lifetime, Sherlock released his hold on Jim and carefully stepped backwards, a small smile playing at his lips. Shocked, Moriarty slumped against the alley wall; the cool brick brought him painfully back to reality. Chest rising and falling rapidly, eyes glazed, he stared speechlessly at the taller boy.

Sherlock took a step towards him.

"Sherlock-"

He kissed him again, and his mind reeled.

Drawing back, Sherlock simply gazed at Moriarty. One long, tapered finger traced his cheekbone, lightly skimming across his skin in a way that made Jim's pulse race.

"Ever heard of the reptilian complex, Moriarty?"

With a small smile, Sherlock turned on his heel, and stalked back down the alleyway. Casting one last, final look back at Jim, he turned the corner and left, coat flaring out behind him.

A trembling hand rose to ghost over swollen lips.

_Sherlock Holmes_.


	3. III

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

First of all, I'd like to thank everybody who reviewed or favourited the story. As always, your support is greatly appreciated, so thanks for taking the time to read/comment, it really means a lot.

Also, just a quick note: a few people have asked about the meaning of the title. It's actually a key component of the story, and is explained to an extent within this chapter (on a side, I believe the excellent Strokes song 'Reptilia' is also named after the complex.)

Finally, I'd just like to explain that I'm not the kind of person who updates every week, because I'd rather spend my time honing my chapters until I'm completely satisfied with them than put up sub-par work every week for more views. I apologise if my rate of work appears slow, but I'd presume you guys would rather have quality work too. Trust me, love goes into this.

Enjoy!

* * *

Blearily, Jim Moriarty rubbed his eyes and squinted at his harshly illuminated alarm clock. It was late, or rather, it was early. 3 o'clock in the morning was, however you put it, a woeful hour to be awake in. Moriarty was fully aware that on average, teenagers needed at least 7 hours of decent sleep to perform at an optimum. At this rate, he'd be lucky to perform basic motor functions, Jim thought sourly, turning onto his side.

It was no good. He'd been up all night; tossing had given way to turning, which had given way to simply lying back and cursing. His body was physically exhausted, but his mind was in overdrive. It was maddening. Jim was astutely aware that he was the only person awake in the house; a lone soul in the twilight hours, surrounded by the heavy silence that only night time brought. Usually, he could lull himself back to sleep simply by closing his eyes and willing it: after all, the human body was, at its most fundamental, a machine. It simply required the appropriate input for the desired output. But not tonight. Whenever he closed his eyes, the events of the day flashed behind his lids, an infinite loop surely intended to torture him.

He'd found his way home eventually; chilled to his core from the November cold, face wind-burnt red, he had half staggered upstairs to his room, his sanctuary. Back to the door, Moriarty had slowly sunk to the ground and, in a hopeless gesture, buried his head in his hands.

Oh God. What had he done? Jim couldn't even begin to process what had happened; he felt numb. He could recall it with a heartbreaking clarity, but it was almost as though he were detached from his body, watching his physical self doing something that his conscious mind had no control or comprehension of. His entire body felt alien to him; he could feel his hands shaking, and was dimly aware of tears coursing down his cheeks, although he simply couldn't fathom why.

Eventually, he'd picked himself up, and spent the rest of the evening in a semi-trance state; mechanically eating, working, or sat perfectly still for how long he couldn't say. But now, alone and awake in the dark, Moriarty was suddenly acutely aware of everything that had happened that day.

He'd kissed Sherlock Holmes. Or rather, Sherlock had kissed him, but Jim wasn't one to fool himself. He'd responded in a manner that could only be described as... passionate. Passion leant itself to love, to hate, to jealousy, but there was no denying its presence in that kiss. Turning onto his back, Moriarty stared at the ceiling, not really seeing it. He could rationalize it as being a natural response; his mind and body had been in a heightened state, brought upon by his intent for revenge, and he had reacted to the stimulus as informed by his frantic nerve cells. However, he knew that this explanation would not account for the second kiss, or the effect that it had upon his emotional response. For the first time in his life, Jim Moriarty had been utterly at the mercy of his emotions. And he hated Sherlock for that.

Sherlock. He was cold, glacial, unmovable. Impenetrable. Renowned for his cool ability to synthesise knowledge and his disregard for social conformity. And yet there had been unmistakable heat in his eyes; he'd behaved in a manner that could almost be described as predatory. The measured, detached genius had vanished as though having never existed. Moriarty simply couldn't understand it. Sherlock hated him, of course he did. He went out of his way to goad him, to mock him, to flaunt his own abilities whilst humiliating Jim. A cold chill of certainty gripped him. Had that been what today was about? Humiliating him? It was of course possible that Sherlock had anticipated Moriarty's reaction; yes, Sherlock was undoubtedly enough of a manipulative bastard to use dirty psychological tactics. It fit the analytical twat. Jim tugged at his hair, fingers twining between the coarse strands. He wouldn't let Sherlock Holmes make a fool of him. That was a promise.

However, there was one detail that simply didn't quite fit. Sherlock's reference to the reptilia complex had, admittedly, thrown him. Jim was of course well informed upon the basic model of the brain; the reptilian cortex was a part of the _tribune brain model_, popularised within the 90's, which suggested that primary emotions and instinctual behaviour, such as aggression and dominance, originate from the _basal ganglia._ The reptilia complex itself was born from this premise; it suggested that so slight is the difference between the patterns of the reptilia cortex that induce the emotions of love and hate that the two emotions can exist simultaneously. The person therefore vacillates between feeling both intense love and intense hatred, the line blurring to a point that it could, in serious cases, trigger psychosis.

The relevance of this to his encounter with Sherlock was mystifying. The likelihood of Sherlock asking him a question that random out of genuine curiosity was so small that Jim didn't even entertain the idea. Similarly, there was zero chance of Sherlock having asked him because he himself didn't know the answer. Clearly, it was intended as a rhetorical question. But, why on earth would Holmes want him to consider an outdated neurological theory? The most logical explanation was that Sherlock was deliberately attempting to confuse him; if he was, Jim thought grimly, it was working beyond his wildest dreams. It was wholly feasible that this was part of Sherlock's psychological attack. And yet, Moriarty simply couldn't shake the notion that the reptilia complex was far too an obscure subject to bring up for no reason other than to unnerve him. There were a million other avenues that Sherlock could've visited; and yet he picked that one.

Or, maybe, Sherlock was trying to tell him something. Perhaps this was Sherlock's attempt to confess his love for him. Jim laughed at the idea, a nasal, vindictive sound. Imagine that. The great Sherlock Holmes, victim to the workings of his own brain, torn between helpless love and hate towards his enemy, the infinitely superior Jim Moriarty. Naturally, he'd exploit it; use it as leverage to crush Holmes once and for all. But, alas, Jim was sure the likelihood of Sherlock experiencing the reptilia complex was minimal. Not that the thought wasn't highly amusing.

His eyelids were heavy, and yet still, sleep would not come. But Moriarty found he didn't care. He had to consider his next move now; clearly, if Sherlock was instigating psychological warfare between the two of them, Jim needed to stay two steps ahead of Holmes' game. Jim rubbed his eyes, hands clasped behind his head. The kiss had been the opening move; now, he had to formulate his own attack. But still, the image of Sherlock's eyes blazing with passion lingered in the back of his mind.

Banishing the thought, Jim glanced at his alarm clock once more. 5:53 am. Things were going to change from tomorrow onwards. It was, after all, a new dawn.


	4. IV

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

Again, I would just like to express my thanks to all of you who review/take the time to read this. It really is lovely to know that people are enjoying my work. Hope this one's up to standards, any opinions appreciated.

* * *

_British weather_, _you will be the death of me, _Jim Moriarty thought sourly. Thursday morning had been an uncoordinated blur of spilt orange juice and hastily buttoned shirt and now, having rushed out the door, he'd been greeted by a full-on attack from the elements. Shuddering, Moriarty pulled his coat closer to him, head bowed against the onslaught of chill November rain. The bus stop was only two streets away, but it may as well have been two miles, the unforgiving grey expanses of pavement bleak in the early morning. Squaring his shoulders, Jim started to walk at a brisk pace. He couldn't miss the bus. Not today.

He was lucky: eight minutes to spare, and not a bus in sight. Leaning against a lamppost, Moriarty's expression was one of haughty boredom, but inside he was feeling slightly jumpy, as though he'd had a double shot of espresso; that empty, erratic feeling within his stomach, which someone of lesser character may have attributed to nerves. But Jim Moriarty didn't get nervous. Nerves implied that he lacked conviction in his actions, that there was room for failure. Jim smiled to himself, a small, insidious smile that twisted viciously upon his lips. Failure simply wasn't an option. Hell, failure wasn't even a word in his vocabulary. Jim Moriarty had a grudge to bear, and he'd be damned if he was going to let it slide.

With a start, Moriarty realised that the bus had pulled up next to him. A horde of Year 9s pushed each other to be the first to board, jostling and swearing in a bid to get out of the rain. Jim sighed disdainfully, eyes narrowed. Really. The nerve of them. They didn't know their arms from their arses, and yet they already possessed the egotistical swagger so common in teenage boys. Why no one had taste anymore, he couldn't understand. Even their clothes were appalling; their ties obnoxiously short, their trousers barely high enough to cover their tacky faded boxers. It was disgraceful. Jim had no problem in admitting that he took pride in his appearance. You couldn't expect to be taken seriously if you didn't look the part: and Jim was very, very serious. Underneath his winter coat was a crisp, tailored Vivienne Westwood shirt, complimented by his perfectly fitted suit trousers and patent leather brogues. You had to dress as you wanted others to perceive you; for Moriarty, this meant nothing less than cutting-edge fashion.

Having finally been able to board, Jim casually offered a fiver to the bus driver, who grunted something unintelligible about _bloody rich kids _and _correct change_. Waiting for his ticket, Moriarty leant against the doorframe, eyes scanning the rows of weathered seats. Yes. He was there. Second to the back, the window seat, motionless as always.

"Your change, mate?" The driver's tone was faintly impatient.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Jim nodded his thanks, palming the coins. Taking a moment to compose himself – because correct composure was of the paramount – Jim casually walked down the aisle, deliberately pausing at the second row to the back.

"May I join you?" His tone was cordial, practised until it sounded almost natural.

Slowly, slanting green eyes rose to meet his, impassive, impenetrable.

Sherlock Holmes coolly stared at him for a moment, before offering a half shrug, eyes flickering back to the window. "Of course". Clipped, polite. Moriarty hadn't expected anything more; in fact, given Sherlock's usual brand of laconic detachment, it was almost a victory to be able to engage with him at all, (no matter how little significance it bore.)

Face carefully neutral, Jim eased into the seat next to Sherlock, casting a sidelong look at the pale boy. This was progress. He needed to up the ante now; he'd begin slowly, carefully, no drastic measures too early. Holmes seemed to barely notice he was there. Rather, his attention was focussed on the rain-streaked window of the bus, eyes slowly tracing raindrops as they distorted and blurred the lights from shops and streetlamps. The harsh lighting of the bus threw sharp shadows across his high cheekbones, and his normally porcelain skin had taken on an almost anaemic quality to it, pronouncing the dark bluish circles under his eyes. Observing the other boy, Jim was suddenly aware of quite how close they were. Were he to shift an inch, his thigh would be brushing Sherlock's; their shoulders were almost touching. He could swear he could almost hear Sherlock's breathing. Jim Moriarty valued his personal space the way rich men valued gold, and yet he didn't find Sherlock's proximity disagreeable. Actually, he could remember rather enjoying Sherlock's...proximity.

"Moriarty".

_Shit._

Exhaling a breath he hadn't known he was holding, Jim glanced up at Sherlock, the memory flush on his cheeks. Holmes' eyes were boring into him.

"Sherlock?" He tried for casual disregard.

Shifting in his seat slightly, Holmes turned his body towards Jim's. "Your pupils are dilated, Moriarty," he stated flatly.

Wait, what? The _bastard._ Internally seething, Moriarty's words were forced but came out as indifferent, mildly amused. "Oh, really?" He laughed, a fake, high sound. "Your observational skills are truly astounding, Mr. Holmes."

"Undisputedly," came the calm response.

"And to what relevance is this?" queried Jim, tone slightly cocky. He was willing to indulge Sherlock's little mind games; perhaps the best way to get to Holmes was to play along with his power-trip amateur 'detective' act. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, and all those other dreadful clichés. Smirking to himself, Moriarty glanced away, playing with the buttons of his cuffs.

"Probably nothing" Sherlock turned back in his seat, body facing straight forward now. "I merely found it rather interesting because there are a limited number of factors which can cause pupil dilation."

Jim raised his head slowly.

"You're not on drugs." The tone was self assured, blunt. "There are no visible side effects or signs to indicate recreational drug use. It is unlikely that there is a deadly poison surging through your bloodstream, and the lighting in here is more than adequate. By process of elimination, the only logical explanation for your dilated pupils is sexual arousal." Sherlock turned back towards Jim, the ghost of a smile pulling at his lips. "So, Moriarty, I can only conclude that my presence has either directly or inadvertently stimulated feelings of sexual arousal within you."

"Shut up," Jim hissed, losing all pretence of cool.

Sherlock smiled properly this time. "You know," he mused out loud, long fingers pulling at a loose thread on his coat, "male arousal is usually dependant on an image stimulus. Presuming that you don't harbour sexual conditioning towards buses or any other such paraphernalia, there is a considerable lack of adequate stimulus available." Green eyes flashed up to his. "So, Moriarty – what were you thinking of?"

Jim simply stared at him, aghast. No. No, he couldn't let him think that. This was not how it was meant to be going. The twat didn't seriously believe that Jim was sat here, helplessly lusting over him. He needed to step up his game. He needed to say something, anything to rectify the situation.

But the words did not come.

* * *

5 agonizing minutes later, the bus pulled up to their school, doors opening onto a wilderness of teenage hormones and angst. Refusing to look at the boy next to him, Jim rose slowly, collecting his bag wordlessly and making his way towards the door. As he was about to get off, a hand pressed against his bicep.

He whirled, almost colliding into the taller boy.

Holmes' eyes locked onto his for one brief moment, before leaning down to casually whisper in his ear. "I'll see you in chemistry, Moriarty."

Jim watched Sherlock stride across the playground, eyes narrowed.

_Sherlock_ fucking _Holmes._


	5. V

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

My thanks to all the lovely people who make the effort to review – it's great to hear your thoughts and opinions, and it really does mean a lot to me to know that people are enjoying the story. As always, feedback is welcomed.

* * *

By the time chemistry rolled around at 11 o'clock, Jim Moriarty had drank three cups of coffee, shredded two pieces of paper, and – god forbid – had began chewing on one perfect nail, before realising in horror quite what he was doing. Sat at his usual desk in the library, Moriarty had been uncharacteristically distracted for the entire morning. Fidgety, even. His usual air of haughty disdain had evaporated, replaced by a creeping feeling of unease. The caffeine wasn't helping. He was sure he could feel it surging in his bloodstream; thick and viscous, it pulsed through his veins, perfectly in synch to his erratic heartbeat. No wonder he couldn't stop trembling. Placing his hands squarely on the desk, Jim scowled, willing his hands to stop shaking. His body was a machine. He controlled it.

Luckily, the tremors had all but ceased by the time he strode into Lab 2. Taking his normal stool in the back row, Moriarty discreetly scanned the classroom. No. He wasn't there. Mercifully, no lanky figure occupied the bench two rows in front of him: Holmes hadn't made good on his...threat? Challenge? It didn't matter now, either way. With a satisfied smile, Jim leant back on the legs of his stool, drumming his fingers on the worktop. He could afford to relax now. What with the unexplained jitters of that morning, he really hadn't been in the mood for another confrontation with the damnable Sherlock Holmes.

Five minutes later, and Jim was beginning to feel slightly anxious. Their teacher hadn't turned up yet; ten more minutes and he was free to leave. He had not dragged himself out of bed at some ungodly hour to wait for a staff member who didn't even have the decency to attend their own lessons. Rocking back on the legs of his stool, Moriarty scowled, his teeth grinding together in frustration.

"Jim," greeted a cool voice behind him.

Moriarty started, flailing backwards, gripping the sides of the workbench to prevent himself from cracking his head open on the unforgiving tiled floor. "You!" he gasped, flustered.

Sherlock's lip twitched. "My presence seems to surprise you" he mused, long fingers idly tapping upon the desk, "though I must admit, I didn't think it would warrant such a reaction. Who knew I had such an effect on your centre of gravity?"

Attempting to regain his composure, Jim flashed a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Why, Sherlock, I believe your ego has gotten the better of those deductive skills of yours," he responded coyly, pretending to scrutinise his nails closely. Moriarty heard a low chuckle, and then the legs of the stool next to his scraping the floor. His head snapped up at the sound.

Occupying the neighbouring seat, Sherlock simply stared at him.

Finally, Jim couldn't take it anymore.

"What?" he hissed, all pretence dropped.

Sherlock raised a sculpted eyebrow. "I'm sorry, is there some kind of issue, Jim?"

Moriarty's exterior was icy, but inside he was desperately floundering. Yes, there was a fucking issue. "Oh, nothing much", he said lightly, trying for nonchalance. "Just wondering why you forsook your normal seat. Wouldn't want to be out of the way of the action, would you Holmes?" At this he laughed, a high, unpleasant sound. "Truly, I didn't know you were so fond of me." Jim leant back, idly toying with his cuff links, smirking to himself.

"Would I be right in detecting a note of sarcasm there?" Sherlock didn't sound at all perturbed. If anything he seemed... amused. "On the contrary, I was rather under the impression you _enjoyed_ my proximity, Jim."

Moriarty's fists clenched, the knuckles starkly white.

"In fact" carried on the low, insidious voice, "I think it'd be fair to draw the conclusion that you found it rather – arousing."

Slowly, Jim turned to face Sherlock, his cheeks burning. "You what?" he choked, utterly thrown off. Sherlock Holmes had _not _just said that to him. Out loud. In chemistry.

"I don't think your auditory functions are impaired" Holmes remarked, as though he hadn't just insinuated – hell, explicitly stated – that he aroused Jim. "You heard me, Moriarty. Your reaction to our kissing the other day, coupled with how your pupils dilate whenever we're in the immediate vicinity of each other strongly suggests that I have a significant effect on your arousal levels." Sherlock smiled slightly, eyes meeting Jim's. "Which is undeniably odd, considering the animosity you project towards me. Logic suggests that generally, one isn't attracted to someone they consider to be a 'fucking egomaniac'."

Jim blanched at his own words being thrown back at him. In that moment, there had been something decidedly bitter in Sherlock's tone; his brilliant green eyes had taken on a hard look, and the normally controlled demeanour had slipped, just for a second. It had never occurred to him that his insults would actually register with Sherlock. Nothing affected Sherlock; he was aloof, untouchable, above the petty emotions and hormones that dictated the rest of their lives. Most people regarded him warily. The guy was a freak, no doubt about it, but he was also freakishly smart. Sherlock wore his intelligence like armour; the childish goings on around him seemed unable to penetrate his air of casual arrogance. But Jim had definitely sensed something just then. Sherlock had sounded almost... hurt.

He took a steadying breath, fists slowly unclenching. There were eight painful crescents in his palms.

When he spoke, he surprised himself with the softness in his tone of voice.

"Sherlock," Jim began, a slight hesitancy to his words. "I'm – I'm sorry for calling you that."

This time, Sherlock raised both eyebrows.

Minutes passed, and neither said anything.

"It's just- " Jim paused, and then continued. "You just always act so distant. I don't_ get_ it. Fuck, I don't get you. You sit in class and laud your intelligence over us all, you make these goddamn statements about people's personal lives like you're a fucking detective or something, and then you don't understand why people get pissed off? I mean, really, the fuck Holmes? And with me?" Jim's voice rose slightly, shaken. "You take every chance you can to humiliate me, and then you push me against a wall and- " he broke off, tugging at his hair, unable to convey the frustration that Sherlock brought out in him. "What game are you playing, Sherlock?" he finished, meeting Sherlock's gaze with one that wavered, but was just as intense. "The hell is this exactly?"

Sherlock was eyeing him oddly. His stare hadn't flinched throughout Moriarty's outburst, but the expression in his eyes had changed; the flash of darkness had been replaced by a quixotic, almost slightly affronted look.

"You think I'm playing a game?" he murmured, so quietly it was almost inaudible.

Jim simply stared. In that moment, he was genuinely lost. It seemed there was an unfamiliar sensation creeping up inside him, pushing its tendrils into every nerve ending until he felt painfully aware of every shuddering breath he took, of every rise and fall of Sherlock's chest.

"Hey guys!" The guttural voice broke the spell, causing Jim to turn, shivering. He realised he was sweating. "'s been 15 minutes, let's just leave yeah? We can register with our class teachers." Cheers erupted around the room as the chemistry class began to disperse, buoyant over the prospect of a free lesson.

Finally it was only Jim and Sherlock left.

Motionless, Jim was dully aware of the boy next to him collecting his belongings and placing them in his bag, his stool making a jarring noise as he rose from his seat. Wordlessly, Sherlock left the lab, leaving Jim staring at the blistered surface of his desk, feeling entirely numb inside.


	6. VI

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

Apologies for the inconsistent speed of updates; I generally only add chapters when I feel completely satisfied with their quality, so this tends to vary wildly. A massive thanks to all the people who take the time to review, especially those who have done since the start – I greatly value your feedback, and it's nice to be reassured people actually like the story!

* * *

Jim slammed his textbook closed and resignedly slumped at his desk, head resting upon his arms. It was no good. He'd been trying to study for a good hour or so, but this damned mental block simply wouldn't let him. The words on the page were illegible to him; whenever he made an attempt to concentrate on them, the black ink twisted and swirled before his eyes in an almost kaleidoscopic manner, leaving him feeling faintly nauseous. Truthfully, he hadn't felt right for the entire day. Jim was fully assured that he didn't suffer from vertigo: and yet there was no denying the unmistakable sensation he'd been experiencing. He'd suddenly feel his legs become weak beneath him and would begin to tremble, faintness washing over him in a sickening wave. It left him disoriented, shaken, covered in a light sheen of sweat all over. Earlier, he'd had dismissed it as the effects of caffeine: but now he couldn't pin it on the coffee. He hadn't drunk anything remotely caffeinated since that morning. Fisting his hands in his hair, Jim stared listlessly at the blank screen of his laptop. It was slowly becoming horribly apparent to him. Vertigo was largely a causal condition. There was an obvious correlation, and he simply didn't want to recognise it.

He slept fitfully that night, his sleep plagued by half-formed dreams of inescapable corridors, shadowy figures in dark coats, and boys with eyes like burning fires. He remembered nothing in the morning, but woke with a creeping feeling of dread.

* * *

"And can anyone tell me the correct biological term for this con-"

The door to the lab was flung open; Jim started in his seat, the nausea rising inside. No. It was only a scared looking year 10, clutching a notice from the attendance office in his fist. Heart pounding, Moriarty slowly eased himself back into a relaxed sitting position, silently berating himself. Beneath his carefully chosen shirt, his muscles were achingly tight, tense.

It had been happening all morning. Whenever anyone walked into the class late, or there was an interruption from a student or member of staff, the dizziness and sickness would suddenly come over him, threatening to engulf him completely. Immediately he was caught in a vice-like grip of utter panic. But each time, Jim's paranoia had been unfounded. The stool in front of him was absent; as had been the chair in front of him in maths. He – Jim shuddered slightly, feeling his stomach swoop at the mere _thought_ of him – wasn't in today. Since their encounter in science yesterday, he hadn't seen Sherlock at all. And every time the goddamn door opened, he'd start in his seat, dreading the sight of an elegant, lanky figure making its way towards him. In a way, he almost wished it was Sherlock now conversing with the teacher as it'd put him out of this wretched misery; the constant nerves, the inability to concentrate, the jolt he felt whenever he even thought of the infuriating boy. Jim was living in alternating states of yearning and denial; half of him wanted desperately to see Sherlock, to talk to him, just to be rid of this awful feeling of anxiety that arose whenever he (often) thought of him. The other half insisted that he should avoid Sherlock for as long as humanly possible. No good could come of it. What could he possibly say to him? It seemed that after the fateful chemistry lesson, Moriarty's warped relationship – if you could call it that - with Holmes had taken an irrevocable turn. However, Jim knew that facing Sherlock would at some point be inevitable; and that when it did, he'd be completely at mercy to this terrible, disorienting feeling.

He wasn't aware of the passing of time, but at some point it registered with him that the lesson was at an end. Standing, Jim began to mechanically pack his items into his bag, not really seeing or hearing his surroundings. He unhurriedly made his way to the door; the last one to leave, as ever. Making to close the lab door behind him, Jim glanced up and froze.

Sherlock was leaning against the opposite wall. His demeanour was one of exaggerated casualness; the hair unruly as always, he was slouched against the wall, hands hooked in his pockets. As always, his air was one of aloof boredom. But Sherlock was a master of control; despite his careless demeanour, his eyes bore into Jim's with an unrivalled intensity, trapping him within his gaze.

Neither boy said anything.

Finally, Sherlock moved, pushing himself off the wall. Through a dull haze of panic, Jim's mind dimly noted how fluid he was; there was almost something sensual about the way Sherlock moved. He used measured, graceful gestures which always carried some kind of intent, to what Jim could not say.

"Care to walk?" Cool, disaffected.

Jim felt himself swallow; it was as though there was a lump in his throat, choking up his response. Mutely, he nodded his assent.

Sherlock gave him an appraising stare, and then slowly turned, evidently expecting Jim to follow him. He had a confident stride, the kind borne of natural intelligence and self-assurance. On the other hand, Moriarty was amazed his legs were functioning at all. The second Sherlock had opened his mouth, the feeling inside him had increased tenfold; it was a plummeting, helpless sensation, rocketing through him until every nerve ending felt fraught with it. His legs were decidedly unsteady, and cold sweat was beginning to trickle down his spine. Steeling himself as best he could, he strode to catch up with Holmes. Jim didn't know where Sherlock was headed; he seemed purposeful, heading out of the science block and across the playground, away from the mayhem and anarchy that lunchtime brought with it. It was only after they were halfway across the field that Jim realised where they were headed.

* * *

Sneaking a glance from under his lashes, Jim hastily looked down, gently scooting himself back and forward. The smaller, concealed playground was rarely used by anyone but skiving younger years and sixth formers who were desperate for a fag off official school grounds. This was where he'd been the day he'd followed Sherlock to the alley; Jim ducked his head, cheeks colouring at the remembrance of that day. On the swing next to his, Sherlock regarded his blush with barely concealed amusement, lip quirked at the sudden show of embarrassment. Again, neither spoke. It wasn't awkward silence, but more one of expectancy; Sherlock had obviously led him out here for a reason, and sooner or later, one would have to cave in to the other and broach whatever subject was at hand. Jim pushed a hair out of his eyes, feet skimming the floor. The atmosphere was pregnant with anticipation.

Finally, Sherlock laughed. The sound surprised Jim; he turned, questioning, slightly alarmed.

"You're as stubborn as the Devil himself, Moriarty" mused Sherlock, shaking his head. He was turned towards Jim, green eyes glinting in the weak sunlight. Jim frowned, brow furrowed. Deliberately, he kicked himself off the ground, relishing the sudden feeling of weightlessness the move brought with it. He'd loved swinging when he was younger: the sense of freedom combined with the "fuck you" to gravity had always made him race towards the swingset in the local park. When the swing dropped back towards earth, Moriarty was shocked to realise that _this _was the mysterious feeling Sherlock brought out in him; this giddy feeling of freefall, which made his stomach flip and turn and his heart leap in his chest. And there was no denying that it was Sherlock that caused the bouts of vertigo. He could feel the wind on his face, and he closed his eyes, relishing the way it kissed his eyelids. When he opened them, Sherlock was still watching him, with an expression Jim simply couldn't place. Slowing down, Moriarty dug his feet into the dirt to stop the swing, twisting to face Sherlock.

"How so do you mean?" he asked lightly, slightly breathless, for once not sounding forced or condescending. He was genuinely curious.

Sherlock smiled slightly. His gaze was still fixed upon Jim, but there was none of the searing intensity of earlier; rather, his eyes were warm, devoid of the fire or ice usually brought out in them by Moriarty. "Although I'm somewhat gifted in psychoanalysis, it doesn't take a genius to see that you're fighting a losing battle with yourself, Jim. I must say I'm genuinely impressed with quite how dogged you are. The resilience and depth of your self-denial is extraordinary by any standards."

Jim narrowed his eyes slightly. When he spoke, his tone was even, but serious.

"Look. Can we cut the cryptic, proto-philosophical bullshit for once, Sherlock?"

If anything, Sherlock seemed mildly surprised for a moment, before instantly regaining his composure. "Well, when you put it so eloquently, Moriarty", he responded, the amusement evident in his voice. Studying Jim intently, his tone suddenly became serious. "But when you don't like what you hear, don't blame it on me."


	7. VII

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

Loathe as I am to do this, I have to say that it's slightly disheartening to have so many alerts/favourites/visitors and so few reviews. It's very difficult to write effectively when you don't get any feedback. Anyway, despite all that, my thanks to my lovely readers, as ever. I hope you're all still enjoying the story, apologies for the long gaps between updating. 

* * *

Jim scoffed slightly, tilting his head to the side. "I didn't take you as the melodramatic type, Sherlock," he responded, though inside he felt a vague sense of shifting unease at Sherlock's words. The pale boy wasn't one for dramatic overstatement; Jim was certain every word Holmes spoke was meticulously selected in his cold, brilliant mind, no single utterance passing his lips having not been intended. So when Sherlock gravely stated, "_But when you don't like what you hear, don't blame it on me," _Jim was in little doubt that he was about to be told something he really, truly didn't want to hear. And coming from Sherlock Holmes himself, that was ominous.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his words. "I assure you, Jim, I am never 'melodramatic.'" A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the eyes bright. "I don't think the same can be said for you, though. You display an undeniable penchant for drama."

Bristling, Jim shot a glare at him; dramatic antics were reserved for the teenage girls of the world, not teenage genii. The very word conjured up ghastly images of pink nail varnish and screeching oestrogen fuelled voices. "Please. Melodramatic?" He smirked slightly in spite of himself, throwing a coy look at Sherlock. Lounging back on his swing, Holmes was eyeing him thoughtfully, though not without a certain degree of amusement. "I suppose any display of basic emotion would be construed as melodramatic by you," Moriarty continued, airily, maintaining eye contact. "We can't all be stone masters of our feelings, Holmes."

"Undoubtedly so," came the cool response.

Jim floundered internally, unsure of what to do. Sherlock always seemed to have this effect on him; one offhand phrase from the other boy, and Moriarty's entire composure crumbled before him. He was sure he hadn't offended Sherlock: or had he? Just because they'd been talking civilly for five minutes, it didn't mean he was suddenly able to psychoanalyse him like – well, Jim thought with an ironic smile, like _Sherlock _could. He remained an enigma, even now. Although, Jim was sure he'd been making progress, though of what kind he couldn't say. But Sherlock's tone suggested he'd hit a nerve.

"Anyway," Holmes was still talking, oblivious to the boy next to him's inner turmoil, "you're avoiding the subject, Moriarty."

Oh, _fuck_. The nausea was back, pooling inside him, curling around his stomach. Jim dug his nails into his palms, unsurprised to find that they were already clammy. _Damn him._

When he spoke, it was an effort to keep his voice even; his throat was suddenly dry, his words choked. "Well, don't keep me waiting then, Holmes." Biting his lip, Jim glanced at Sherlock and then just as quickly looked away, eyes dropping to his gently wavering shadow. "What don't I want to hear?"

Sherlock sighed then. A proper sigh. It startled Jim slightly, alerting him to the dull ache of pain his nails were causing him. Unclenching his fists, he ran his fingers over the welts of his palms, tracing them. Sherlock never sighed. To Jim, he always seemed far too in control for such menial human gestures; in all the classes they'd shared, Holmes had never once yawned, or chewed on his pen, or even ran a hand through his unruly curls. Hearing him sigh now was almost... intimate. It broke down the mystery of Sherlock somehow: it made him more human. Jim could imagine Sherlock poring over a textbook in the dead of night, sighing at the inadequacy of the research before him. Or he'd been running an experiment in the chemistry lab, sighing impatiently as he awaited the results. It was such a simple sound, but it brought a multitude of images flashing into Jim's mind. He turned back towards Holmes.

"This is going to be harder than I thought," Sherlock murmured, gazing unseeingly into the distance. His long fingers were gently drumming on the buttons of his coat, complex rhythms played out on cold brass. Abruptly, he turned to Jim, fingers stilling.

Moriarty felt his slight frame tense.

"No," Sherlock mused; quiet again, eyes searching Jim's face for something unknown. "I see I'm going to have to break it down for you." In one fluid movement, he pushed himself off his swing, feet landing on the ground with a feline grace. Pushing a strand of hair back from his face, he stood before Moriarty, who suddenly felt very vulnerable under the scrutinising gaze.

There was a pause, and then "You think I'm arrogant, correct?" Sherlock didn't sound angry; it was matter-of-fact, bland almost.

Jim frowned slightly. There was no point talking around it. Hell, they both knew the answer anyway after his outburst those few days ago. Whilst Moriarty was never averse to manipulating the truth, (especially for his own means), he saw no benefit in lying to Sherlock now anyway.

"Yes," he said flatly.

"Aloof? Cold?"

"Yes."

"Self-absorbed? Manipulative?" Holmes persisted, neutral.

"...yes."

"And based upon this, you find my presence an irritant, no?" Again, there was no judgement in Sherlock's words.

Loathe as Jim was to admit it, this wasn't exactly true. Yes, Sherlock was infuriating, but he couldn't pretend that he'd have spent the last ten minutes alone with him if he'd found him unbearable. And – Jim ducked his head slightly, aware of the flush that was no doubt colouring his cheeks – he certainly didn't _kiss _people he found irritating. Actually, he wasn't even sure he found Sherlock to be an irritant anymore. Even his cold, clinical manner had become tolerable. He was just – frustrating. Maddening, yes, but not irritating in that. He was like a puzzle that Jim was consumed by; intrigued and repelled in equal measures.

"Until recently," he replied honestly, not looking at Sherlock.

Holmes was pacing slightly now, his shadow stalking the length of the swing set.

"Which brings us to the inescapable conclusion that you greatly dislike me, especially when considering the considerable vitriol you've displayed to me on numerous occasions in relation this."

"I suppose so," said Moriarty slowly, not entirely sure where Sherlock was heading with this. It wasn't in Sherlock's nature to reprimand Jim for his actions, or to coldly lay bare his own dislike for Moriarty; his inability to understand Holmes' motive was distressing, especially given the direction their conversation was heading.

"So we've established that you dislike me. Immensely, in fact. And yet-" Sherlock paused momentarily, considering. "-and yet you willingly spend time with me, allow me to kiss you and display all the signs of being sexually aroused when in proximity to me." He stilled, turning back towards Jim. "Do you see the discrepancy here, Moriarty?"

Jim was mute.

Sherlock sighed again, his green eyes locked onto Jim's.

"That spectrum of emotion is generally regarded to be impossible, Jim. Humans can't be aroused by something that they hate, not if it's all encompassing as you've claimed it to be. If you genuinely loathed me, you wouldn't be near me right now." The eyes sharpened; Moriarty was helplessly pinned in Sherlock's gaze unable to process what he was saying or what he was thinking. There was nothing, just Sherlock's measured voice and the biting wind.

"I'm going to have to say it," Sherlock mused, almost inaudible, talking to himself.

Eyes never leaving Jim's, each word was pronounced distinctly, cutting into Moriarty's soul.

"You're in love with me."

And Jim felt nothing but numbness; a cold, aching sensation of ice, that made him unable to truly look at Sherlock, unable to process his words, unable to even begin to comprehend the magnitude of what Sherlock had just uttered.

Holmes laughed suddenly; it was almost bitter, Jim registered somewhere.

"And you hate me, too."

He didn't move, didn't breathe.

"And so we find ourselves with two explanations." Nothing. He could drown in this feeling; spend an eternity in its void if it meant he didn't have to live with Sherlock's words. "Either you're a psychopath, Jim Moriarty, or you suffer from an acute Reptilia complex."

There was nothing but the cold wind.


	8. VIII

**Disclaimer: **Sherlock belongs to the BBC, created by Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. I sadly own nothing.

I am aware how long it has been since I have updated this story: for anyone who has loyally been waiting for or looking forward to it, I can only apologise for the prolonged delay, and thank you for your patience. I hope that this is up to standard; as always, I greatly appreciate your reviews, they really do make the difference to me.

Here we go. 

* * *

It could have been years. Seconds twisted before his eyes, laboured minutes contorting into unrecognised hours, which in turn gave way to long, endless days whose beginnings and ends folded into themselves like a cheap smoke and mirrors magic trick. Fragments of speech, print and scent pulled at him, though he couldn't have placed them if he tried. Instead, these half-forgotten memories began to distort and shift, blurring themselves seamlessly into other fantasies of dream and reality, dimmed imaginings whose shapes and forms inverted themselves and left lasting impressions on his retinas. It were as though all that he trusted in – those irrefutable laws of physics that had anchored and guided him for so long – had simply crumpled beneath him, leaving in their place a swirling, unknown abstract, utterly alien, that paid no heed to his grappling for linearity and reason. He was lost to himself.

Jim could therefore never be certain of when Sherlock had left. After a while, he had become dimly aware of the shapes in his vision dissolving and re-forming themselves as solid entities, which gradually resolved into recognisable objects: a bench; a playground slide; an abandoned packet of cigarettes. The shadows were lengthy, opaque where they had earlier been hazy; the sky had darkened to gunmetal, threatening rain. He was alone on the swing set – had probably been alone for quite some time now. That Sherlock had ever been next to him, with his long coat and clever fingers, already seemed doubtful to him: the memory had begun to take on the candescence of a daydream or fantasy as opposed to what had (seconds? minutes? hours ago?) been a reality, as much of a reality as the biting wind or tarmac beneath his feet. Jim was perturbed to find that the harder he tried to piece together his and Sherlock's conversation, the more the details eluded him. There was however no mistaking Sherlock's final statement to him. He couldn't have escaped that if he wanted to: Holmes' voice came unbidden from the spell of confusion, swimming up slowly and purposefully to take residence in Jim's mind, where his tones echoed with the greatest of clarity. How they had been said at the time was debatable: now though, alone in the playground, Jim Moriarty replayed to himself a subtle inflection of contempt, of mockery; of a sneering, deliberate attack on himself, cold and malicious. Jim's hands squeezed into fists, nails finding familiar welts in his palms. Through the dull throb Sherlock continued undaunted, assailing Jim's conscience with his disdain. The word 'love' became mangled, a meaningless string of consonants and vowels repeated until it was almost pointless in his head, bleeding into other cool insults and humiliations. Moriarty winced slightly, fingertips pressed to his temple. He couldn't think. His head was overrun, crumbling under the weight of his memories and desires and desperate thoughts. The very ground under his shoes seemed unbalanced; if he shifted his weight, he was sure that the earth would shift too.

"Boyfriend leave you did he, Moriarty?"

The voice cut through the haze in his mind as though it were a surgical scalpel, the soft, tenuous tissue of Jim's thoughts yielding to its intrusion. Slowly uncurling his fists, Jim raised his head and, with an effort, smiled; it was a bright, winning smile, the kind that a small child one bestows upon a beloved parent. On Moriarty however, the smile slipped and faltered at his eyes; there instead lay an implacable, cold rage.

"Carl Powers. A pleasure as always. I wasn't aware that they were allowing the mental incompetent to roam the grounds freely." Jim's tone was solicitous, friendly even: the words themselves however were imbued with an icy contempt.

Powers, who had before been looking inexplicably pleased with himself, tensed: his broad swimmer's shoulders hunched, and his small eyes narrowed as he stared at Jim with an undisguised loathing. Like Moriarty, he was in his own clothes as a sixth former. This was, thankfully, where the similarities ended. Whilst Jim chose to attire himself in cutting-edge tailoring, Carl Powers favoured jeans, sweatshirts and trainers. _Trainers._ It was really all Jim could do to stop himself shuddering at the sartorial abomination that stood in front of him. Then again, he mused, lip curling, perhaps Powers' dress sense simply couldn't be helped. One could postulate that his lack of sophistication in the realm of fashion held a distinct connection to his frankly laughable IQ level. As an evolutionary throwback, it was unlikely that Carl would ever have the capacity to appreciate Moriarty's tastefully put together ensembles; the jeans and trainers could be argued as indicative of his somewhat _simpler _mental capacity.

Whatever the state of his dress, Powers clearly wasn't best pleased at the disdainful look that had flitted across Jim's face. Taking a step towards the swing, he scowled, an angry flush working itself across his cheeks.

"You talk to Shirley like that? No wonder your boyfriend dumped you, you little fag."

"Excuse me?" Moriarty could feel his front of civility slipping: the ice in his voice was more pronounced now, cutting into the phrase. He wouldn't afford this Neanderthal the chance to anger him. He was too good for that.

Powers seemed slightly buoyed by Jim's question. He pulled himself up, voice assuming a fake tone of confidence. "Seemed like you and your _boyfriend_ were having a nice, _long_ chat over here. Funny that he just offed and left you all alone like this, isn't it?" Carl smiled, lips pulled back over his teeth. "What happened? Lover's fight? Not such a good fuck for the great Sherlock, Moriarty?" The smile was triumphant now. "Or maybe he realised that you're a creepy little shit." With that, Powers folded his arms and lent in a mock-casual way against the frame of the swings, staring at Jim, smirking broadly.

Studying his face, Jim tilted his head: unlike Carl his face was blank, seemingly unperturbed by the verbal assault. "Bad shave today, Carl?" he enquired mildly.

Tensing slightly again, Powers blinked at Moriarty, hand automatically rising to rub at an angry scar on his cheek. "The fuck?"

"Your scar," Jim continued neutrally, gazing calmly at Carl, "suggests that your razor is far too blunt; you've damaged the upper epidermis quite badly from the look of it. You should invest in a new blade, something sharp." At this, Jim smiled slightly; a small, insouciant smile. His eyes were locked to Powers'. "Of course, if you wanted, I could show you how to use a blade properly, Carl." A pause. Powers shifted slightly, unease evident. When Jim spoke again, any veneer of friendliness was gone: whilst the smile remained, his voice was low, the implication of his words perfectly clear. "_Nothing_ would give me more pleasure, I assure you."

Carl Powers jerked backwards as though Jim had hit him, his face contorting in confusion and fear. "The hell, you fucking freak!" Face ashen, he fisted his hands in his pockets, snarling. "Christ! They should lock you up, you fucking psycho. You and your homo boyfriend!" Throughout this tirade, Jim's smile had remained unwavering, his eyes still on Powers. Carl however had lowered his gaze, eyes darting over the ground at Jim's feet. He kicked out suddenly at an empty coke can.

"Fuck!"

With this last exclamation of disgust, Carl turned and hurried away from Moriarty, glancing back once before he disappeared round the corner. Jim sat still on the swing, unflinching; slowly, the smile melted from his face, expression becoming once again inscrutable. After a time, he rose to his feet and smoothed down his trousers, before picking up his bag and exiting the playground. 

* * *

By the time he was home it was early evening, with dusk setting in over the street. Jim blinked up at the sky, brow furrowing at the spreading darkness: his day was out of sync, the chronology fragmented across the minutes and hours. Finding his key, Jim let himself in and lent over to switch on the hall light, before bending to remove his shoes. He was thankful to find that his mother was out; the thought of her inane questions made him shudder slightly, grateful to be alone in the cold and silent house. Walking through the hall and into the kitchen, it occurred to Jim suddenly that having not had the chance to eat his lunch, he was in fact starving. There was some tomato soup in the cupboard: he could have that heated in five minutes. Moriarty hurried over to the cabinet, feeling keenly now the gnawing at his stomach. Fetching his soup, pan and a wooden spoon, he quickly set to work at the hob, opening the tin and lighting the gas ring. As Jim moved to place the pan on the hob, he found himself staring at the circle of flame: the tongues of fire ebbing and flowing in formation around the small black disc, the heat shimmering off the peaks in a haze. Fire, he thought, was clean. There was a beautiful simplicity to it; it didn't have a purpose or agenda in its devastation, but raged indiscriminately, equalizing men in its unforgiving blaze. No regard for emotion, no regard for morals. No. Fire was destruction in its most pure form.

Slowly, Jim moved his hand towards the flame. He felt the heat gently at first, licking at the very tip of his finger, wavering across the grooves in his skin; and then, as he moved in further, into the core of the flames, it lanced into something sharper, something altogether more primal. At their centre the flames were not really red, but a steady, pulsing blue.

When he finally removed his finger, the skin had flayed slightly, now red and with an unnatural sheen. His soup lay to the side, cold and forgotten.


End file.
